


less than a year

by Manuscriptor



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Fantasy High
Genre: Character Study, Descriptions of PTSD, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manuscriptor/pseuds/Manuscriptor
Summary: Gilear is just a normal guy who dies multiple times within the course of a year.You don't get out of that with perfect mental health.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	less than a year

Gilear didn’t often leave his house. 

There wasn’t any need to, and the outside world was typically less forgiving than his living room. Outside was terrifying and unpredictable. The most unpredictable thing that could happen inside was running out of yogurt or beans. And even that was predictable to a degree, since he scheduled and planned most of his meals. 

The apartment was minimal, but that was how he liked it. The furniture was simple and uncomplicated. The dishes were easy to clean and since he lived alone with only a few visitors, he only had a couple sets of each item. 

It was a comfort space, completely safe, made just for him. There weren’t many things in the world that he could claim like that. 

Gilear was happy with his life. 

He would never really complain. Not to Fig and not to Sandra Lynn. The rest of Fig’s friends had their own lives and problems and didn’t have the time to sit down and deal with him. 

So Gilear kept to himself, usually. 

No need to worry anyone. 

He woke up every morning and made himself tea with the kettle. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he always seemed to burn himself. It had gotten to the point where he kept burn cream and band aids on the counter solely for those times. 

Tea and yogurt. 

It was such a safe breakfast. Besides the hot water (and that only happened twice a week), there was nothing even remotely dangerous about it. Gilear would carry it carefully to the small table and single chair that made up his dining room. Only when everything was set carefully on the table without the possibility of spilling did Gilear sit down himself. 

Sometimes, if the delivery boy remembered his address, he would get to read the local newspaper while he ate. Most of the time, since the delivery boy forgot him a lot, he would just stare across the table at the empty spot opposite of him. He would try not to think about how he used to eat at a table with a spouse and child and that he used to have rowdy mornings that were loud and boisterous in the best way possible. 

Now they were quiet.

Not that he minded too much. 

Loud, sudden noises always made him jump these days. If Gilear thought about it, he wouldn’t even be able to say when he got so jumpy. Fig and her friends would sometimes make fun of him for it, and Gilear just went along most of the time. It made everyone else laugh at least, which was nice.

So he ate yogurt. Alone. Quietly. 

It was good. It was safe. 

The dishes were always easy to do afterward too. All he had to do was rinse off his spoon and wash out the yogurt cup. Once that was clean and dry, he added it to his recycling bin with all the rest of the yogurt containers, and then he took the rest of his cup of tea to his living room. 

By that time, the sun was up just enough so that the rays were spilling in through the window and created the perfect spot on the couch to just sit and stare out the window. 

Gilear would spend the rest of his cup of tea there, timing it perfectly so that he took the last sip right as it got to the point where it could be considered too cold to drink. 

Gilear would cut open the tea bag, empty the leaves into his compost, and then throw the bag into the garbage. 

At that point, Gilear couldn’t put off going outside. By now, it was two hours since the newspaper delivery boy would’ve gone by. It would take him an hour to finish the rest of his shift and at the end, he would realize he had an extra paper. It would take him another half hour to remember which house he forgot and then another half hour to bike all the way back to the apartments and drop it off for Gilear.

Sure enough, Gilear opened his door just in time for the paper to come sailing through the air and hit him right on the head, almost always knocking him right on his ass. Sometimes, he thought about waiting a minute more. Like, what would happen if he just waited a couple extra seconds and listened for the paper to hit the door instead of opening it? 

For some reason though, Gilear guessed that the universe would find some way to hit him with the paper, it was just easier to do it this way. 

He would pick himself up, dust himself off, and shut and lock his front door. Then he would double check the lock, testing it, jiggling it, and then pulling on it a little. Once he was satisfied that it was properly closed, he would collect his paper and return to his spot on the couch. 

The sun was higher now, no longer providing the perfectly warm seat, but now a good source of light for Gilear to unfold the paper and actually read about what was going on in Elmville. If he was careful, he could read the whole thing without any papercuts. One or two, though, wasn’t uncommon. Gilear kept band aids in the drawer of a side table specifically for that.

The finished paper would be folded and placed on the coffee table. Gilear would take yesterday’s paper and add it to the recycling bin with all the other old issues. 

It was a routine, and Gilear loved having a routine. 

A crash from outside made him jump, his heart immediately racing a million beats a second. He pressed himself back against the counter and held his breath. He stared at the door. At the lock. He had locked it. He _had_ locked it. He was sure of it. Because he had tested it. 

He didn’t dare move and breath or move. 

He stayed where he was, listening to the thumps and clattering outside the door. No one touched the handle. No one pounded against the wood, yelling like they wanted to get inside. _Or worse_. 

Still, it took Gilear several minutes before he was actually able to relax and peel himself away from the counter. 

He retreated quickly to his bedroom, scooping up his crystal and cradling it tight to his chest as he climbed into bed. He debated calling Fig. Or texting her. Or doing anything. He was frozen though, just curled there on top of his blankets. He always made his bed every morning and now he didn’t have the energy nor did he dare move enough to untuck the blankets and crawl underneath them.

He clung to his crystal instead.

And this is why bad things always happened to him, he reminded himself. Because he always froze up and could never do anything. His routine was thrown off. He would probably end up spending the entire day in bed now, getting nothing done and nothing accomplished. 

But that was his life. 

Of course it would happen to him. 

As he sat in bed, frozen and unable to do anything, his crystal buzzed to let him know that he had forgotten to charge it and that it was now low battery. A moment later, it died. So much for messaging Fig, if he had even gotten the courage and guts to do that.

So Gilear huddled a bit tighter in on himself. He stared down at the blankets and wished that the noises outside would go away. 

They did. 

Eventually. 

Of course. 

Only after agonizing minutes of flinching at the banging and squeezing his eyes shut, hands clamped over his ears. It was probably just someone moving into one of the nearby apartments, but even when Gilear told himself that and tried to get himself to move from his spot, he just couldn’t. As long as there was noise, he was frozen where he was.

Finally though, the clattering and banging stopped and Gilear was able to uncurl. 

It was past lunch but he wasn’t hungry. Still, he should probably eat something. The routine was broken, but now would roughly be the time he was supposed to be eating. So he climbed out of bed, smoothed down the blankets, and made his way stiffly back to the kitchen. Yogurt was safe. Yogurt was easy. It was something he could rely on.

Gilear ate yogurt for lunch. 

He rinsed his spoon and the cup, putting it in the recycling bin with all the others. 

He didn’t want to leave the apartment. He plugged in his crystal to charge and sat back on his bed, waiting for it to get enough power to turn back on. Not that there was anyone waiting to talk to him once it did. Still, having a crystal that worked was better than one that didn’t. It was a small lifeline that he clung to. 

It took an hour to charge completely. 

Gilear sat there the whole time. 

He should get headphones. That would help with noise. Maybe he could ask Fig about something like that, she definitely had to have experience with that sort of thing. But Gilear didn’t want to leave the apartment and he didn’t want to do anything by himself. And Fig required a message or a phone call and he didn’t want to bother her. Not yet.

If he just stayed here, everything would be fine. 

That was what he told himself. 

He burned himself making another cup of tea, dressing the reddening mark with medicine and a bandage while the tea seeped. His hands were covered in bandages at this point. The parts that weren’t covered were still healing and slightly sore. 

Gilear didn’t have scars or anything else on the rest of his body. 

Which was bizarre to think about. And horrible. 

He couldn’t point to a bullet wound to show why loud noises made him cringe. There wasn’t anything on his head to show that his skull had been caved in at some point. He didn’t have gashes across his chest or warped bones from them being broken too many times.

It was the beauty of magic.

Or maybe the curse. 

On the outside, Gilear was perfectly fine. On the inside, he wasn’t exactly sure how to qualify his feelings. Usually it wasn’t this hard. Usually he could determine why his head was spinning or his palms were sweating or his knees were shaking. Now, after just a year--after less than a year--things had become more scrambled, mixed up in ways that Gilear didn’t always know how to deal with. 

How was he supposed to explain that corners were terrifying? Or how flickered lights made him duck and wince before he could stop himself? Stairs were now impossible. The store was outright exhausting and made him almost guaranteed to faint. Something that was supposed to be as simple as making a phone call or attending parent-teacher conferences now left him shaking. 

And there was nothing he could point to to explain why. 

So Gilear didn’t. 

Instead he stayed home, ate his safe yogurt, kept his crystal charged (as much as he could), and did his best to brave the bits of the outside world that managed to make its way inside. He didn’t reach out for help. For one, he didn’t know how to. Who would believe him? 

Gilear was the sad parent that you dragged along on your adventure because you felt sad for him. He knew it. No one had to tell him. He knew. He wasn’t supposed to _ask for help_. He was a dad, he was there to provide help. 

So, no. Gilear didn’t ask for help. Because he knew his place and because he had a very specific role. 

And that role wasn’t being the well-adjusted adult with their life together and knew how to adventure. That role was the fumbling mistake who couldn’t get coffee orders right and didn’t know how to hold a knife, let alone a sword, and provided the whole group with a good laugh whenever things got a bit too serious or heavy. 

That role was the fumbling mistake who didn’t flinch at loud noises and didn’t have to steel themself just to leave the apartment and didn’t cry when their routine was broken or interrupted. 

And so that was what Gilear was.

**Author's Note:**

> hey look, i'm on tumblr @manuscript-or


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